


Watcher

by Zedoktor



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 05:48:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12450891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zedoktor/pseuds/Zedoktor
Summary: In which Spy gets a little too close to Sniper for comfort...





	1. Chapter 1

He tells himself that it’s just professional curiosity. It’s part of being a Spy, after all; he needs to know about everyone, even his own teammates. He wouldn’t use the information against them, of course, because despite his underhanded methods, Spy is still on their side.   
  
It’s part of the job, more than anything else. He’s had years of watching other people, reading their body language, listening to the things they don’t say. It’s second nature, to a good Spy at least. Besides, there should always be someone around who knows exactly what’s going on and how everyone feels, and he doesn’t think there’s any better man for the role. A brief word here, to take the wind out of one of Soldier’s rages, a little gesture there, to deflect Scout’s lunacy; he helps wherever he can, and he doesn’t expect to be noticed or thanked. The result is that the team works well together in battle, and that’s reward enough. 

Spy prides himself on being able to read people as easily as he reads his native French. The team are so familiar to him now that he can almost tell what they’re thinking by the way they move. He sees the way Medic stares at Heavy before a fight, and he knows the stiff German has a heart underneath his cold manners. He hears the way Engineer laughs when he makes a good kill, and he knows that there’s a mean streak a mile wide behind it in spite of the man’s pleasant, optimistic attitude. He senses the grim determination in Soldier’s stance when he rushes to take a point, and he knows that the American might be crazy most of the time, but in battle he is completely sane.   
  
And yet, for all his skill and experience, there is still one he cannot decipher.   
  
Sniper has only been with them for a few months. He’s a loner, as far as Spy can tell, come straight from the empty depths of the outback with nothing but a rifle and a beat-up camper van. He keeps to himself to a ridiculous degree, avoiding all contact with the rest of the team most days. He doesn’t answer questions. And nothing in his voice or his body gives away what’s going on in his head.   
  
It’s a little irritating. Spy’s even gone through his file, which was a waste of time for how plain it was. He’s a bushman, for god’s sake – there should have been something interesting there, but all it has is a little personal information and history. He’s spent years hunting dangerous predators on various game reserves. His parents live in Sydney. Useless, irrelevant things.   
  
Spy watches him more than any of the others. He keeps looking for a clue, a sign, anything that might suggest what kind of man he is. There’s little enough to go on. He’s mostly polite, and quiet. He washes his own dishes and mug, and eats whatever is given to him. He doesn’t join in conversation, or make any indication that he’s listening unless he’s spoken to. Spy tries to get him talking, but his responses are short, and he always excuses himself and leaves.   
  
He hates any form of physical contact too, it seems. Not even a friendly touch is welcome; Sniper flinches, as if he’s been burned, glares at the offender and moves away. Heavy doesn’t try to hug him in enthusiastic celebration anymore, not since the time he pulled his kukri and threatened to gut him in a rare outburst of emotion. Spy wonders if it’s because he’s spent so long out among dangerous animals, where a touch might mean death. It’s bizarre; another facet to a puzzle that he can’t ignore.   
  
During battle, he barricades himself into his nest. Anyone who comes near him gets shot, whether friend or foe, as Spy learnt one day. All he got in exchange for the Respawn headache was a muttered apology at dinner that night, and a brief explanation that Sniper took no chances when it came to possible enemy Spies in disguise.   
  
Spy should just let it go. He calls it professional curiosity, but deep down, he knows it’s because he’s getting obsessed with the mystery of it all. Somewhere, inside the shell that Sniper has closed around himself, there is a living, feeling human being, and Spy wants to know him. It’s already grown into something more than wanting a friendship, and that certainly isn’t healthy, but he can’t help it.   
  
He knows he’s gone too far this time, and if Sniper finds out, he’ll probably… no. He doesn’t know what he’d do. Spy can’t predict anything about him, which makes this even more dangerous, but he’s getting desperate.   
  
Sniper has a routine, of sorts. Late at night, long after the rest of the team have used the showers, he goes into the locker room and bars the door behind him. He comes out after an hour with damp hair. The team doesn’t care; Pyro does the same, and what does it matter if they do it when it’s quiet? But Spy wondered what he would see, if he was there, and it’s taken him a few weeks to get the courage to risk it.   
  
His cloak will hold, as long as he keeps the movement to a minimum. He stays hidden, crouched beside one row of lockers, and waits. The floor is freezing, but it’s about the most comfortable he can be while still being stealthy, and who knows how long Sniper will be?   
  
An hour and a half, and Spy has almost given up hope when Sniper walks in. He freezes by reflex, but it’s alright – he can’t see him, and Spy knows everything about being silent. He watches him close the door and lock it, then lean against it and sigh in relief.   
  
It’s such a human thing to do that Spy can’t quite believe it’s the same man.   
  
He walks to his locker, and suddenly it really is like watching another man entirely – whatever mask he’s been hiding behind is gone now, replaced with someone far more real. Sniper sits on the bench and pulls off his hat and sunglasses, and tucks them neatly to one side. His eyes are very blue, and his hair is flattened a little; Spy wants to ruffle it affectionately, smell it, stroke it and play with it. He could die in those eyes, if they were looking at him with the warmth they had now.   
  
Sniper stretches out his legs, rubs his hands over his face and yawns, then tugs off his boots and socks. He stands up. Spy lets his gaze follow the line of his body, the length of his limbs. He is fascinating to see like this, after months of knowing next to nothing about him. Sniper unrolls his shirt sleeves, and slips his glove and watch off his hand. He leaves them with his hat.   
  
The jacket slips off his shoulders and falls to a heap on the ground, and Spy can’t help feeling very voyeuristic. Part of him wants to leave, somehow, even though he half-expected this, but another part of him wants to see everything, to drink in the details of Sniper’s flesh and imprint them on his memory. He wants to remember, so that when they’re having dinner tomorrow, he can look at his teammate and enjoy the fact that he knows a little of his secrets.   
  
The shirt follows. He lets it slide off his arms slowly, not really caring where it ends up, and the look on his face is one of almost filthy pleasure. Sniper’s naked to the waist now, and it’s one hell of a sight. He half-turns away from Spy, so he can see his back and admire the muscles that flex in his shoulders. He’s got a striking tattoo – an aboriginal crocodile that runs down his spine, and whose tail curls around his hip and disappears under his belt. His few faint scars tell their own stories; a ragged animal bite, a clean slice from a knife, a round bullet mark. Spy feels his fingers twitch, wanting to reach out and stroke his tanned skin, and trace the intricate lines of the ink. He wants to touch, and knows he can’t. He wants to taste, and has to clamp his mouth shut to stop himself from making a sound.   
  
The belt comes loose, and his pants fall into a puddle around his ankles. The heat rises in Spy’s face; he’s not wearing any underwear at all, and damn but the thought is fiercely arousing. All the time he’s been with the team, the few times he’s spoken to Spy, there’s only been one thin layer of cloth between his… between him and the air. And now he’s bare, and his flesh is prickling in the chilly air, but Sniper runs his hand across his stomach and sighs, blissfully, as if he’s just been released from a prison. He's  _enjoying_  the sensation of being naked, Spy realizes; he looks so happy, just standing there with his arms tucked around himself and his head tilted back, eyes closed. He’s smiling, just a little, and Spy’s never once seen him smile before.   
  
His breath is slower, more relaxed. Spy watches him stretch his arms up over his head, working out the muscles in his shoulders and neck. He pulls a towel out of his locker, and walks around to the showers.   
  
Spy doesn’t dare move a muscle as he passes by his hiding spot, but it’s getting so, so hard to keep still, and stop his hands from reaching out and letting his fingertips trail across Sniper’s hip, following the dark lines of the crocodile. The twisting, serpentine design just reaches the hair of his crotch, and there’s another smaller tattoo circling one of his nipples – a delicate Western motif of a snake eating its own tail. From the back, he’s merely very attractive; from the front, he’s the stuff that Spy’s dreams are made of, in the cold heart of a lonely night.   
  
He disappears into the showers, and his scent hangs in the air like Arabian perfume. It smells like sweat, and wood, and very faintly of gunpowder. Spy whimpers softly, feeling heat and electricity crackling through his body. Maybe if he steals an unwashed shirt, he can hold it to his face and breathe in that scent and pretend that Sniper is the one touching him, caressing his skin, and holding him close.   
  
The cloak is only fully effective when he’s still, but he’s hurting with desire now and he can’t pass up the chance to watch Sniper in the shower. Spy shuffles forward carefully, silently, and presses himself flat against the wall as he creeps around the corner to get a better view. It’s a risk, he can’t deny that, but oh, the reward is more than he could ever hope for; Sniper is standing with his back to the jet of water, steam clouds rising around his body and thin rivulets trickling from his shoulders to his groin, his fingers working through his hair and his head thrown back like a woman.   
  
The sound of the shower is all that hides Spy’s laboured breathing, but Sniper is in his own world now. He washes slowly, taking a visceral and undeniable pleasure in rubbing the soap across his skin, frequently turning his face to the water and letting it flow over his lips and the tip of his tongue. The first time Spy hears a faint, wanton moan, it’s almost enough to stop his heart right then and there.   
  
Sniper isn’t done when the last of the soap has vanished down the drain. He stays under the water, leaning against the cold tiles, half-turned into the wall. Spy can’t understand what he’s doing until his free hand smacks against it wetly, and he groans with desperate need. His other arm is moving rhythmically, slowly, and every action makes Sniper’s body arch a little more.   
  
Oh god, please turn around, Spy thinks as he slides down to the floor. He curls up there, both hands trying to hold down the heat in his groin. He can’t look away, not even with the clear danger that his cloak might fail in the damp air. All he wants to see is Sniper’s face as he presses slack-jawed against the tiles, moaning and shivering and begging for more.   
  
He gets his wish. Sniper rolls onto his back, spreading his legs and giving a soft, muffled cry as his hand speeds up. He’s alternatively clenching his teeth and gasping for breath as he pleasures himself, a lovely red blush spreading over his cheeks to match the color of his engorged member. His other hand teases his nipples, squeezing and pinching, and stroking that odd snake tattoo. Spy can’t move another fraction of an inch without seriously jeopardizing his cloak, no matter how much he needs to start jerking himself off, no matter how much he wants strip off his clothes and run his tongue over every inch of Sniper’s body under the spray of the shower. It’s agony and ecstasy at the same time; painful, and so darkly wonderful.   
  
When Sniper comes, he gives an agonized whimper and thrusts forward involuntarily, and the water washes his orgasm away. He shakes and arches his back, and all Spy can see is his face as he bites his bottom lip to hold back any louder sounds. He leans back against the wall, chest heaving; Spy can just make out the flicker of his pulse in his neck. He’s finally so real, vulnerable and human.   
  
Spy’s never wanted another person so much.   
  
Sniper stays in the shower for another five minutes. Again, he wraps his arms around himself, leans against the wall, and looks so utterly content that Spy can’t make the connection between this man and the distant teammate he’s been watching for so long. He turns off the water regretfully, and snags the towel to dry himself; again, there’s a hint of pleasure when he rubs the fabric across his skin. Spy’s still trembling, using every shred of willpower he has to stay still and silent, torn between wanting Sniper to leave immediately and wanting him to stay forever.   
  
He walks back to the locker to get dressed. There’s a hint of reluctance as he pulls his shirt back on, a faint thread of distaste for the cloth enclosing his flesh once more. The towel is neatly hung up to dry. He doesn’t bother rolling up his sleeves again, or putting his hat back on – his hair is still wet, after all. The ubiquitous sunglasses return to his face, and Spy can already see him starting to retreat into himself once again.   
  
Sniper walks to the door. He passes within an inch of Spy, who begins to pray desperately – but it’s fine, he’s still hidden, luck being on his side. The smell of fresh soap wafts past him. The impulse to touch surges again, but he’s in control of it now, and he doesn’t move.   
  
He faces the door. His shoulders are tense, as if he’s preparing for a battle. He settles his features, and the mask returns; cold and lonely, a cage for the free spirit within. It’s heart-breaking to watch.   
  
He’s gone. Spy waits for the footsteps to fade before he lets his cloak drop and stands up shakily. He stumbles back to his own room, and locks the door behind him, his mind a mess of questions he will probably never have the answers to. Still, he needs his own release, and at least what he has seen will help with that.   
  
Spy imagines his body under the water, and the look of happiness on his face. It’s a privilege to have witnessed him, naked in more ways than one. Spy wants to know why he’s closed off, and knows he doesn’t have the right to ask. He wants to hold him and not be pushed away, and knows it’ll never happen. It’s his own hands that stroke his skin, that grip the heat in his groin and play with his nipples, but in his mind it’s Sniper doing it, just like in the shower. He turns his face into the pillow to muffle his voice as Spy cries out his name. The memories are enough for him to reach a powerful climax, but it’s bittersweet at best.   
  
The next day, he still watches Sniper as he quietly eats dinner. There’s no trace of the man with the crocodile tattoo who’s currently possessing Spy’s mind. Spy knows he can’t go back to the locker room again, because the temptation – and the risk – is too great. He wonders if there’s some way to break into that shell gradually, some way to earn Sniper’s friendship, but he has no idea how to go about it.   
  
He still watches, in the meantime, and catches a mere flicker every now and then of warm, blue eyes.


	2. Lover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sniper gets too close to Spy for comfort...

It starts with the base on lockdown.   
  
No reasons are given. There’s much speculation that it’s got something to do with agreements between RED and BLU, but no one really cares. It’s a break, if anything.   
  
Spy watches them for signs of cabin fever. Soldier, Demo and Engineer have taken to playing poker most nights. The other two keep Soldier from being being too unhinged, and Engineer is a good peacemaker. Scout is a problem until Spy ‘accidentally’ leaves some porn magazines where he can find them; now the boy tires himself out in a way that keeps him to his room. Pyro is happy as long as he is allowed to burn something at every meal. Medic and Heavy… well, he suggests to Engineer that they should install some soundproofing around the infirmary.   
  
And then there is Sniper.   
  
Spy has always been at a loss when faced with him; now more so than ever. The bushman doesn’t take well to enclosed spaces, and he’s not allowed out to his camper van on orders from the Administrator. So he has a room, conveniently next door to Spy’s, and it’s already clear that he’s going a little stir-crazy.   
  
It’s still hard, knowing what he is under the mask. Spy can hardly deal with it, some nights, knowing that he’s only a few feet away on the other side of the wall. He still dreams of the tattoos, and the smell of his skin, and the way he looked in the shower. But he still has no plan, no way of breaking into the shell that Sniper has built around himself, even when the Australian is belligerent and antagonistic and unknowingly sabotages the delicate balance that Spy has so carefully maintained between them all.   
  
It comes to a head when Demo gets drunk.   
  
The crazy Scotsman decides that all his wonderful teammates need a hug. Most bear it well, because he doesn’t mean any harm. Spy is glad that Sniper isn’t there, in the common room – he knows how he would react to being touched, to having his personal space invaded, and Demo is being very insistent.   
  
Then he appears at the door, and Spy’s heart sinks. He can’t let this happen. Sniper is too volatile, and sending Demo through Respawn would start a fight that could last for days. Days of nine angry, hardened, unstable mercenaries at each other’s throats, with no way to work off the aggression…   
  
He moves quickly. This is for the team. It’s not ideal, but he wouldn’t be a Spy if he couldn’t think on his feet and make the best of a bad situation. Better that Sniper focus all his anger on him than on the others.   
  
Spy grabs his arm, turns him around. Sniper immediately freezes and goes for his kukri, but Spy bodily shoves him outside and closes the door.   
  
“Do not go in there, Monsieur,” he says, and immediately cloaks as the kukri lashes out at his face.   
  
“I’ll go wherever the fuck I want,” Sniper growls. “Do that again and I’ll kill you.” He swishes the knife through the air, hoping to catch the Frenchman by surprise.   
  
Spy maneuvers around him with practice, even though his heart is pounding. “The Scot is drunk, and he insists on hugging everyone. I know you dislike being touched, Monsieur. Believe me when I say you should not go in there.”   
  
“I’ll go wherever I bloody well like, and you don’t know anything about me, you French bastard!”   
  
The kukri comes within a hair’s breath of catching his side. Spy offers up a quick prayer to any god that might be listening, and speaks just behind Sniper.   
  
“I know about the crocodile and the snake. I know who you are when you are alone.”   
  
Sniper stops moving. Spy’s never sure what to expect from him, but the sudden look of fear in his eyes is astonishing. The Australian turns around, trying to find him, but the point of his kukri trembles in his grasp. And there’s the flicker, now stronger than ever, of the man behind the mask, and he’s terrified of being discovered.   
  
He bolts – and it would have been good, too, if he’d been able to get away clean. But Sniper’s mad rush slams into Spy, and they tumble across the corridor. The knife skitters across the floor with a metallic clatter. The cloak disappears, and he’s left staring into the other’s face.   
  
All Spy can think is that he’s warm, and he smells just like he did in the shower. It’s so lovely he wants to drown in it. Sniper’s glasses slide down his nose, revealing the same blue eyes, and Spy would give the world for him to never, ever leave.   
  
But it’s not to be. Sniper kicks him away, scrambles to his feet, and runs. His kukri is forgotten. Spy gets up, feeling forlorn, but at least the crisis has been averted. Sniper may come after him, but the rest of the team would be shielded. He picks up the knife – it’s far too big to put into his pocket – and decides to keep it for a while. He can put it back in Sniper’s room later…   
  
No. He must do it now. He could not let Sniper run away again, to keep hiding, to attack anyone who got too close. The weight and heat of the other man’s body lingers on his skin, makes him feel dizzy. Everything he witnessed in the shower comes back again, and he can’t help imagining it; Sniper’s hands on him, while he kisses his way around those tattoos. Spy has to know, once and for all, why he closes himself off from the world. He tells himself it’s for the sake of the team, but in his heart of hearts, he knows it’s to satisfy his own obsession.   
  
Sniper’s door is shut. Probably locked too. Spy considers his options, and knocks gently.   
  
There’s no answer.   
  
He leans in and speaks quietly. “I have your knife, Monsieur.”   
  
There’s a faint rustle. “Slide it under the door.”   
  
The voice is far weaker than he thought possible. He doesn’t understand the fear; what could the bushman be so afraid of? He’d spent years in the outback, fighting creatures that made their opponents look like bunny rabbits. “Non,” he says. “It will not fit. Besides, we must talk. Will you let me in?”   
  
“…Go away.”   
  
Spy leans against the door. Bluffing is the only way in. “I know you do not trust anyone, but I ask for a little trust now. I must protect the team, and keep all of us sane enough to work, and this includes you. Please let me in and we can talk.”   
  
The door clicks. He opens it gingerly, and it swings inwards, showing only darkness. Spy steps inside and closes it behind him – and rough arms shove him away against the wall.   
  
His eyes adjust slowly, and the kukri is wrenched from his grasp. He doesn’t resist. Sniper is… perhaps more like a wild animal than he thinks. Perhaps showing no aggression is a good thing.   
  
Sniper is angry, that much he can tell, but there’s no mistaking the fear. He is afraid of being discovered, in some strange way. Spy notices the faint tremor in his body, the unsteadiness in his hands, the way he is so careful to stand back and avoid contact. What lies underneath that, he wonders.   
  
“What do you want from me?” Sniper says. “Have you been spying on me?” The voice is harsh, but frightened. What words would be enough, if he could say anything? Spy can’t explain his fascination, his obsession. His desire. Now that he’s gotten this far, he has no other plan.   
  
“It is my job to know about everyone,” he says. “Even you, though you try so hard to hide. I mean no harm by it, Monsieur, but I… must keep the team from killing each other.”   
  
“Stay away from me,” Sniper says, with an edge of desperation. He points at the door. “Just go and leave me the hell alone, alright?”   
  
Spy considers it. It’s not enough. He has to know, for better or worse. He has to put an end to this constant threat of an implosion among the team. And, in his heart, he has to save Sniper from whatever pit he is trapped in.   
  
The memory of blue eyes returns. How natural he was, how beautiful. When he dropped the mask, he was incredible, and Spy ached to see him again as he truly was. The question was whether he could break through the shell.   
  
“Non,” he says softly. “I do not know what you are afraid of, Monsieur, but I wish to help you. You cannot live inside yourself forever.”   
  
Sniper backs away, kukri held out in defence. “I don’t trust you…”   
  
Spy is prepared for this. He could not protect himself, either. Such is the price of getting close to Sniper; he needs to open up as well, and let him into his own life. “I just wish to talk. A gesture of goodwill, oui? Observe.”   
  
He places his knife on the desk, as well as his cloaking device and revolver. He lays his jacket over the chair, and his tie. The most difficult is his balaclava, but he manages to pull it off and place it on the desk as well. Then he turns and faces Sniper, hands open.   
  
“I will trust you with this much,” he says. “No one has seen me like this in years, Monsieur. Please… I ask just a little in return. Tell me why you hide yourself away.”   
  
Sniper looks… doubtful. But Spy wants to convince himself that there is hope as well. He watches the kukri follow him as he takes two slow steps to the bed, and sits down gingerly. He points at the other end of the bed. “Sit. Talk.”   
  
He’s almost surprised when Sniper actually does sit, but it’s more like an animal ready to flee at the first sign of danger. The kukri stays, constantly pointed in Spy’s direction. He nods, glad that the bushman is capable of this much.   
  
“You hate to be touched,” Spy says. “Why?”   
  
Sniper swallows. “It’s… like… in the outback,” he says thickly. “If something touches ya, it’ll kill. I spent… I dunno. Years. But now I can’t… tell the difference. It’s like instinct.”   
  
Incredible… Spy listens, and at first he doesn’t really understand. Then it suddenly makes sense, and he wonders how Sniper is even capable of functioning at all. To live without any human touch is about the closest thing to hell he knows… especially a particular, pleasurable, intimate kind.   
  
He can’t help asking the question. “How long has it been since you allowed someone to… touch you?” he asks.   
  
The bushman understands his meaning. He can’t meet Spy’s eyes, and his face is a mixture of embarrassment and regret. “Too long.”   
  
The two short words carry the kind of aching loneliness that could break any heart. Spy understands, now, why Sniper is so stand-offish; why he doesn’t avoid the team completely, even though he barely says a word to them. He wanted any kind of contact, even though he couldn’t tolerate it.   
  
“You can’t help me,” Sniper blurts out. “You should just go.”   
  
Spy frowns. It’s another gamble, with very long odds, but he had gambled with less and won. He shrugs, and crosses his legs. “I believe I can help you, but it would depend on your… preference.”   
  
Sniper stares at him, clearly not on the same page. “What the bloody hell do you mean?”   
  
Spy licks his lips. “I mean that I could, eh, let you touch me. That would be safe, would it not?”   
  
The idea sinks in slowly, and Sniper’s eyes get wide. His mouth opens and closes a few times. “Why would you?” he asks weakly.   
  
“I protect the team, Monsieur. My methods vary, but my purpose does not. And… I observed you when you were in the shower. You are…”   
  
Words fail him. There is no description that does Sniper justice; the memories alone still keep him warm at night. Spy covers his sudden tied tongue well. “I would do this because I want to. That is all you need to know.”   
  
Sniper breathes in and out. His gaze flickers over Spy’s body. “How do I know you won’t…”   
  
Spy wordlessly picks up his tie, and lays it over his wrists. He offers his hands to Sniper. “Make sure I will not, mon loup,” he says.   
  
The kukri is placed to one side, slowly. When Sniper reaches out, it’s as hesitant as a teenager on their first date; his hands tremble, just a little, as he knots the tie around Spy’s wrists. His fingertips linger on the back of the other man’s hands when he’s done. Spy doesn’t move a muscle. It’s enough to watch, for now.   
  
Sniper sits a little closer, and lifts the pair of bound hands to his face. He rests his cheek against them, rubs his nose and lips across the knuckles, already just a little lost in the sensation and smell. Spy turns his body towards him and he immediately flinches away, but Spy keeps the movement slow and deliberate. He has to let him keep control.   
  
Spy stretches his legs out on the bed. “You may undress me,” he says. “I know how much you… like that.”   
  
“You saw a lot then?” Sniper says hoarsely.   
  
“I saw everything,” he replies. “Everything. It was… Tu es magnifique.”   
  
Sniper grabs his hands again, and the look in his eyes seems to burn. It’s gone too far now. This is more than just Spy holding the team together. He’s shoved his way into Sniper’s shell, but Sniper has long since gotten under his skin. And now they’re exposed to one another, and the touch of Sniper’s hands on his is scalding, and whatever this was – this strange power and feeling pulling them both – was out of their control.   
  
“What do you want from me?” Sniper asks again, and this time, he can’t hide the truth.   
  
“Je te souhaite… je veux tout que tu m'offres,” he says, the French spilling out uncontrollably. He swallows, and tries again. “Anything, Monsieur. I want you as you are, as you were when I saw you then.“   
  
Sniper shudders, and Spy cannot say why. But it becomes clear as he is shoved back onto the bed, and the ends of his tie are looped around the bars of the headboard. Sniper still avoids touching him, only barely brushing his skin, but his face hovers over Spy’s as he slips the sunglasses off and tosses them onto the desk.   
  
There he is. The man with the crocodile curving around his hip, who is sensual and exotic, blue-eyed and beautiful. He’s never looked so good. Spy reaches up as far as he can, offering his lips to him, but he’s pushed down again.   
  
“Don’t move,” Sniper croaks. “Don’t… please. Just let me do this.”   
  
He starts with the shirt, and carefully undoes every button. He pulls it open, but doesn’t even lay a finger on Spy’s bare, scarred chest. Then he unbuckles the belt, and slides the pants down and off Spy’s legs, and still doesn’t allow himself even the smallest brush of skin on skin, like he’s trying to hold himself together for just a little while longer. He strips Spy as carefully, apart from the shirt, and when he’s done, he simply looks at him.   
  
His gaze travels everywhere. Spy is not entirely immune to insecurity, nor to being so carefully scrutinized. Then he stands up, and for one horrible moment, Spy thinks he’ll just leave him here. But then Sniper lets his vest slip off his shoulders, and he realizes that it’s the same transformation he witnessed so long ago. When the twisting tail of the crocodile is revealed, as Sniper’s pants hit the floor, Spy can’t help the faint moan that escapes from his throat.   
  
Sniper moves slowly back to the bed. He breathes as if he’s about to face an army alone. Spy’s hands twist in the restraint with all the things he would truly like to do – anything to stop this waiting, this watching. Then Sniper kneels on the bed between his legs, and stretches out on top of him.   
  
Their groins touch first, then their navels, then their chests. Spy can feel the terrified heartbeat pulsing against his own. Sniper rests heavy on him, but no worse than any other man he’s been with, and the heat – god, the heat of him – is like bathing in lava. It makes him dizzy again.   
  
He can feel how hard the other is. He can feel his own arousal throbbing in time with it. Sniper’s hands travel up his arms, his head curled against Spy’s neck, and he takes huge, deep breaths. It’s like a ritual, the way he explores and feels as much as he can; like rediscovering what he had lost. Despite the instruction to remain still, Spy can’t stop his knees from rising around Sniper’s body and pressing into his sides.   
  
Sniper shudders again, and his grip tightens, but he doesn’t pull away. The movement starts something more, and they begin to rock together, and though Spy can’t remember the last time he did nothing more than rub against another man, Sniper whines in pleasure and bites blindly at his neck.   
  
He smells like sweat. Spy’s hands are almost raw from pulling at the tie now. But he can’t move, can barely breathe, and his hips seem to have a life of their own. The bite is on the very edge of pain, but Sniper seems to be in control for now. Spy isn’t used to being passive, and the pressure to do something – anything – is more than he can bear.   
  
He whispers things in English and French; filthy, erotic things, as he describes what he wants Sniper to do to him. The words tumble out endlessly. Whether the bushman understands or not is debatable, but he understands the tone well enough when Spy stops asking and starts begging. After a while, there is only one request, repeated endlessly.   
  
_Let me touch you._   
  
Sniper wraps his arms around Spy’s torso and kisses him harshly. It’s all teeth, and lips caught painfully, but it lets him act and that’s all he can hope for. It’s almost a struggle to get as much as he can. They thrash together, and Sniper growls in the back of his throat, and the bed creaks across the floor; it’s like no climax he’s ever known, but the shuddering moan that erupts out of him is certainly one of the loudest he’s ever uttered.   
  
Sniper’s grip doesn’t relax an inch when they’re both spent. Spy realizes dazedly that one of his hands has come free. It’s bruised, sore and almost numb, but if he wants to…   
  
He buries his nose in Sniper’s hair. His arm does not move. He hasn’t come so far and gained so much just to lose it all on a whim. Someday it would be alright – someday, because this would not be the only time they made love, not if he had his way – and he would run his hands all over Sniper’s body. He would show him all the wonderful things he had missed.   
  
Not today, and not now.   
  
Too early to sleep, but no need to get up. Nothing to do but talk.   
  
“You may want to work on your knots, mon loup,” Spy murmurs. “I could have broken free.”   
  
Sniper turns a little, slides to one side, and looks up quickly at Spy’s free hand. “You didn’t move,” he says.   
  
“I am a man of my word. It would not be fair to push you so far on the first time.”   
  
“'First time’?”   
  
Spy takes him by surprise when he catches his lips. The kiss is short, barely more than a touch, but it’s worth it for the sudden warmth in those blue eyes. “I want you,” he says simply. “The offer is there. As many times as you want, and I will do whatever you want.”   
  
“You think I’m worth it? All… this?”  
  
“A hundred times over and more.”   
  
Sniper lays back down again, and Spy is content to let him think. It’s pleasant enough just to be here, in his room, in his bed, instead of back in his own and daydreaming of what he just experienced.   
  
“You know it’ll take a while before I can let you…” Sniper begins.   
  
“I know.”   
  
“And you still…?”   
  
“Yes. You will get over this problem someday, and when that day comes, I wish to be the one in your bed.”   
  
Sniper lets out a quiet laugh, and it’s the only true, honest laughter Spy has ever heard from him. Then he looks up and smiles, and the quirky curve of his mouth is the most perfect thing Spy’s ever seen.


End file.
